


featherbed.

by bluecarrot



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Consensual Sex, Cutting, Dark, Hamburr, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, Human Disaster Alexander Hamilton, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, I failed, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Shameless, Smut, improper negotiation techniques
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:49:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/bluecarrot
Summary: a small conversation with myself about what it takes to stop talking, OR: the one way to shut up Hamilton i've never seen explored.*-- his chin is trembling and he's horrified, he doesn't mean this to happen, to be so undone --And Burr sees. He makes a soft noise of being startled or concerned or somewhere between the two; he tugs out a handkerchief from his sleeve and presses it against Alex's mouth and for a second he thinks Burr is gagging him and the world stretches out endless and mindless and endlessly darkbut Burr wipes his mouth, his eyes. Says "It's all right."





	

**Author's Note:**

> written 8/22/16.
> 
> a sort of companion piece, a different treatment, to the modern-AU-version of ["the balance shifts"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7619644)  
> because i have a lot of things to say about the relationship between desire and denial. (this isn't half of what i want to say.)

I can do this.

I can do it.

I am Alexander fucking Hamilton and I can do anything I want.

 

* 

(He went inside to Burr's private parlor unannounced, stomping snow off his boots, brushing past the servants and smiling at them and lying.  _He's expecting me_ and he locked the door and tossed the key on the desk with a clatter and said _Why don't you ever touch me, Aaron?_  and Burr looked up annoyed from his book, and he said, he said --)

*

 

"Shh."

Burr unknots the cravat in one slow pull, sliding the fine linen off Alex's throat, and he's smiling a little. No one else would notice it -- no one else has spent hours watching his mouth, his concentration and stillness -- but Alex sees the corners lift just that little bit, that perfect bit, and his eyes lose focus as Burr leans in and kisses his exposed throat, tasting his pulse.

"Quiet, Hamilton." Amusement in his voice, and something else: what? His eyes are heavy-lidded. Sleepy. How often has he looked like that? How often did he discount it? _What else did I miss?_  

If he speaks, this will end -- and it will never happen again. He caught Aaron off-guard, he caught him alone and liquored and sleepy with winter. He'd acted without any forethought -- and no matter what Burr thinks of him, he does not usually act without forethought -- but today he wedged on his boots and called for a thick overcoat and was out the door and shivering against the damned cold before he even realized where he was headed.

If he let himself think he would be lost.

_If I let Burr think --_

He tries to move, to rub and grip, but Burr pushes him off with a swear and he swings back to anger, hot and impatient. _Goddamn you._

He feels Burr's heat too, he _knows_ he wants this -- why won't you let me let yourself let me let me _let me_ \--

 

*

(Burr hadn't even looked up from his reading. _A perpetual state of vasocongestion? How uncomfortable that must be for you_ , and Alex said _You're never this cagey except when you're trying to hide something_ , and Burr said _Your tight breeches are in no way my responsibility_ and Alex felt his anger flare up, he snapped  _Well it's certainly your_ fault _\--)_  

*

 

The words are in him; they're always in him, churning and humming beneath the surface, pressing against his teeth, held tight in his tongue. _I want you I want you I want you_  -- how long did he try and fail to say that? How long? Until today. He was scribbling notes for a court case and notes to argue down Congress and the ink spilled over both and he threw the pen across the room and swore, and pushed outside and shivered through town, through the _fucking_ snow dripping down into his collar --

Burr does not rush. His hands slide up inside the coat to push it off Alex's shoulders; his tongue and mouth and teeth glide over the new flesh -- and Alex is so aware so aware, it's almost painful -- although he has only touched his bare wrists, and his neck, and tucked a lock of hair back behind his ear -- Burr is steady and calm and his eyes are dropping down heavy-lidded again (why) and Alex is breathing harder already (why) and he thinks: _Did he imagine this?_

The idea of Aaron -- alone -- giving in to impatience -- touching himself, shutting his eyes -- he shivers all over and opens his mouth, seeking pressure, seeking seeking wanting -- he wants to _fuck_ , he wants to talk, both at once and right fucking now _(can't speak can't speak)_ so he tugs and unfastens and works his way into the layers of clothes Burr wears against the cold, dropping them on the floor as he's done with them -- first the soft, fine-knit reading gloves and the expensive tailored jacket -- pushing back his stiff sleeves with clumsy fingers, trying to imitate the touching that makes his own mind stutter and slip off-mooring --

"Stop that," sounding annoyed. "Behave yourself. You asked for this."

He had.

He'd sat into the chair across from Burr and said, feeling now the press of nerves through adrenaline, saying it anyway:  _I want you. I can't sleep without dreaming of you. I can't think about anything else._

_Is that so? Washington will be interested to know how you pass time in meetings --_

_Don't jibe me about this._

And Burr said:  _What will you give me?_

 _What do you want? --_ aching, thinking Why am I not good enough what do I need to do to be good enough tell me and I'll do it

 _If you could be quiet_ , he said -- and when Alex flinched back, Burr actually smiled. _That's it. That's what I want. I want your silence._

 _No,_ said Alex, and _No no no_ , and then the shaking started. _Aaron --_ no _. Not that_.

(Please don't make me do this he'd wanted to say, and Please, and How do you know just how to hurt me, and I wonder what I could do to hurt you, my dear)

_I think you can manage it._

Alex stuttered. Damn his cool tone; damn his amusement! Of course he _could_ do it, that wasn't the _point_ - He'd reached out (he was always reaching out) and

 _Starts now_ , said Burr.

 

Now

Now

 

Now: "What would you have done if I refused you?" Burr runs his hands inside his shirt now, along his shoulder his collarbone, curving. "Would you go stomp back into the cold?" 

He was stupid to come here, stupid; why is he always  _stupid_ around Burr? He thought he'd say  _I came here_   _because I could not deny myself any longer,_ he'd say that and Burr would understand (we always know each other)

and their bodies would move together, their voices would tangle --

"And yet here you are. Still so impatient."

Wool and copper buttons; the warmth of Aaron underneath it. He should have known Burr would hurt him (we always hurt each other)

but  _I trust you_ , he tries to say with his arch, his eyes, his fingers careful.  _I know you._

 _Let me._ He opens the last button and tugs at the shirt to get more skin, more and more; he needs this. He deserves it.  _Everything leaves._ You know that already, don't you? I have to get what I can, while I can get it -- I cannot lose anything more --

"Slow down. Wait. Have you ever waited for anything in your life? Wait for it -- wait --"

and he's pulling back again, he's collecting himself again, how fucking  _dare_ he? _I'll make you stay_  here Alex wants to say (cannot say), tries to say anyway, taking Burr's fingers into his mouth one at a time and licking at the web between them like it's something more interesting

until Aaron makes a soft noise and their eyes meet and now (oh Jesus) he is finally letting him touch, finally slowly lightly _finally_

"You know why I told you to do this?"

Because you want to hurt me. Because you think I talk too much. Because I do. Aaron, Aaron. I know what you think -- you don't need to tell me again --

He can't do this. He can't. Not again. He doesn't understand, he doesn't know, how can he tell him -- all that he has is in pushing back against the world -- it's all he can do, it's elemental and raw and desperately honest -- if he loses that -- if he learns to hesitate -- what will he have if he loses himself?

"You're the one who asked for this." 

He did, because

(I trust you)

because Burr should know, he should _know_  Alex can't bear this -- 

 _Aaron_ , he tries to say, to break it apart, even if it makes Burr stop.

He can't speak with that mouth against him and he can't, he can't go on. (How many times can he pull himself apart for his goals before he's disintegrated entirely? Oh god, oh god, the parts won't fit together always and if he changes something -- if he drops Burr's tea-cup -- if he smashes it down against the fender -- if Burr makes a noise when Alex touches him -- they won't be able to regain where they were -- 

So they'll move forward. 

He moves. He is _Alex Hamilton_  goddammit and he moves forward, moves against Burr, he kisses the tension out of that mouth as he's been desperate to do it for months now, years, thinking about Burr while he visits prostitutes or other lovers or simply shuts his eyes in the dark and lets his hand run over his own body, pretending wishing thinking:  _Aaron_. 

Always there, always. He's been in love before and this is not love ( _this is not love_ , he tells himself, gripping the length of his desire, _this is not love I do not fucking_ love _Aaron Burr_ ) -- it's simple greed, he can't deny himself what he wants,

and he's shaking

so he tries to kiss Burr again _(please don't hurt me anymore),_ to quiet that mouth always patient in giving pain and stall what he can't bear to hear, the inevitable

"You need to learn to be quiet, Alex."

Please stop. _Please_.

He chokes. I know how to be quiet -- please let me speak -- _please_ don't punish me for speaking -- don't hurt me again -- 

but now (finally) Burr kisses him back (finally) and it is full and warm and assured and almost _polite_ and Alex is pressing himself into another kiss, biting down on that broad full lip, meeting reserve with greed

and Burr has his waist in a grip, his head is dropped against his shoulder; Burr's hand is working at the lacing and buttons on his trousers and he's aching, he shuts his eyes and feels that breath rasping over him more and more as the tension shifts, and he's running his hands over that skin, he can't get enough of seeing what he's dreamt of so many times, and it's smooth smooth smooth, and he's thinking _Would you have ever done this on your own, ever? and How long have you wanted me? and Why are you so goddamned difficult?_

and

 

_*_

_(_ Burr said  _If you would please lower your voice, sir, there are other people in this house besides ourselves,_ and Alex said quite loudly, _Why don't you make me be quiet?_ and Burr said _I'd gag you if I thought it would help,_  he was laughing and Alex laughed too but he was hurt hurt hurt why was he hurt so easily still)

_*_

 

"Hurrier! You are always -- you always _do_ , Alexander." 

He does.

He saw at the beginning how careful Burr is, how cautiously respectful; he saw it and he understood. Burr will not reach out for more than his hands can hold and hide; he's been punished often enough for trying -- but Alex cannot stop reaching out, no more a choice than the force that moves Burr to hide; he certainly can't control it. He is pushed forward and Burr is held back, each acting to their natures. How can he blame Aaron for it? How can he blame himself?

But Burr blames him. "Stay _quiet_ ," he'd hissed at their first meeting, in the shabby little pub that rang out with voices, more than enough noise to cover over their sedition. "For Christ's sake, can't you stop?" He'd pushed a mug forward. "Keep your mouth full, if you can't hold your tongue any other way."

Alex drank readily enough but kept on watching Burr over the top; when he was finished he put it down and tapped his fingers on the handle for a moment and said (trying and failing to mirror that thoughtful tone): "So what do you stand for, Burr? What would move _you_ to action?"

"I know this much," Burr said, looking into the dim half-lit crowd of arguments and loud chatter and drunk men. "Talking gets you nothing but a gunshot in the belly."

"So you don't believe in --"

"I believe in _nothing,_  in a crowd. Do you understand?"

Oh yes. He understood -- and understood it harder, more viscerally, than he expected or wanted to understand. But he shook his head, denying it to both of them. "I will never understand you." 

A lie. I've always known you. And wanted you, so long I've wanted you -- years and years, Aaron -- and you've wanted me too and you did _nothing_ , how could you wait so long, how could you make me wait, how  _dare_ you -- 

Always wanting. It comes in like the tide, roaring up (and will he never hear that again? _Nevis_ , he thinks, and _home_ ) -- it drains away to return --

When he was fourteen and with his first woman, an island-girl, friendly and warm and smooth and laughing, his cousin came on them, alerted by the noise, and broke into laughter as Alex tried to cover himself, wilting. _Nevermind_ , he'd said, _nevermind, keep on, don't let me stop your joy --_ but too late, it was gone, gone. 

The girl kissed him anyway. _Sometime later, little Alex. B_ ut she was wrong, too; he couldn't go back, he went forward -- always forward, as he goes forward now, towards this man, his almost-lover, his longest dream -- Aaron, Aaron -- 

 _\--_ and always so goddamned certain. Always so _annoying_. The way he waits until the last moment to cut open a new page in a book -- how he splits quills from pressing down too hard and steals fresh ones from Alex's drawer -- how he takes a pile and carefully trims them fresh, with a steady hand, a calm certainty --

\-- oh his hands are no less certain now and his mouth moves downwards, too, covering over the skin his fingers just left, different warmth meeting in a rush, a rattling confusion, -- what is the word for that?

(juxtaposition)

A _juxtaposition_ , then. Contrast. Study of texture. Callouses and sweet tongue, rough-speckled and gentle and pinkly sweet, licking and tasting -- Alex whimpers and Burr laughs aloud and tugs up his shirt from out of his waistband and Alex clutches at him like he's going to fall over and waits for that brutal laughter to come again -- but Burr only takes his face in both hands and kisses him, oh _Aaron_ \-- oh he's always so -- so -- 

 

*

( _I've wanted you for years. I've thought about you. I've touched myself and pretended it was your hands on me, your mouth on me --_ and Burr swore, looked away, saying _Jesus Christ, Alexander!_ and Alex said, softly: _Why do you pretend to be shocked?_ )

*

 

\-- and maybe he's been wrong to talk all these years, thinking Burr had nothing to say, because he's talking now, mumbling just under his breath and Alex can just understand, with his eyes shut and his hands stuttering over Burr's skin, the heat of him, the nearness -- _I've always thought you were cold_  he wants to say, cannot say, would not say even if Burr would let him speak, because how can he hurt Burr more than he is already hurting -- how can he know? How can he ask? 

Aaron.

 _Cold_ , he thinks, and  _in Nevis -- when I was a child_ \--

"When I was a child," Burr says, and Alex jerks his head up.

Burr shrugs. Stops speaking. "Nevermind."

 _Tell me._ (This is another thing they tacitly agree on: the deadness of the past, its ghosts and skeletons to be left buried, never to be woken by a footstep over the earth covering them) -- Tell me.

But Burr doesn't speak. He is able to speak and he doesn't and how dare he be quiet -- how dare he stay like this -- reserved, hidden, withdrawn. _Is that why I want you?_ he thinks; it's the first time he's wondered this. _Just to see you react. Make you act out. To want. To want_ me _,_ _Aaron._

Even with him under his hands Alex isn't sure -- how can he be certain? but it's getting more real, the world is becoming settled and solid around their bodies: Aaron makes a noise and again their eyes meet and he takes that dark hand in both of his paler ones, turns it over, kisses the open palm where their colors meet and match _(Aaron),_ he's dark as a slave, here in their new America where appearance means everything -- even the height and type of fabric at your throat has layers of meaning -- where people still see his skin and refuse to work with him.

There will always be people who see them together and flinch away from one and smile at the other. 

Does Burr hate him for that? Is that why he -- why he's _talking --_

"My parents died. I was very young." He doesn't miss them, is what he means. His eyes are dark; he's not meeting Alex's face. "You know all this."

He did. (I know you.)

"My uncle," said Burr; his hands are steady and sure, taking Alex apart with so little effort. "My uncle raised us, my sister and I." A hesitation; a slight smile. "I imagine he wasn't very eager to take us in."

My mother died. She was holding me, she was sick and she was holding me, she held on to me like she'd held on to me during the hurricane, like she'd held me after her useless shit of a lover beat her and broke her chair over the table and threatened her with more if she cried; she stood up and waited for him to leave and never even looked at where I was, silent and quiet and quiet, waiting beneath the table while the wood shattered over top my head, and when he swore and left and didn't come back in she crawled under with me, she drew me in close and touched me, touched me, until I could stretch out my arms to her, until I could speak again.

She held me. She loved me. She died like that, loving me.

"He beat us. Badly. Badly enough that the neighbors heard us screaming and came to stop it. I hated him," he said, as if there had been in any way a question of affection. "I hated him when he beat me and I hated him when he beat my sister and I hated myself too, because he made me chose between her and me, Alexander, and I chose myself."

She chose me. She died and I was alone, oh Aaron I was so alone (Alex bites his tongue on the memory like the pain will do anything at all) I was thirteen and I was alone and I gave up. For months and months I did my work for other people and ate the food they gave me and slept in the places they let me sleep and barely washed my own face. There wasn't any point in living anymore; everyone who'd loved me had died. I was thirteen and I wanted to die, he thinks, he wants to say --

\-- but Burr is going on.

Scraps come through. "I broke it -- I didn't mean to," and there's an old fear in his voice that brings Alex sharply back to see his face, his quickening breaths, "my uncle found it, found it broken, and the two of us staring at it. He asked which one of us did it."

The world changed. The sky was less open. The trees didn't chatter to themselves. The birds stopped dropping feathers for me to find. And it took a long long time to see the feathers were all still there, the world was still there. I was the one who went away.

His voice is flat. "I told him that she had." 

I was thirteen.

"He took off his belt," and his hands linger, tensing and releasing, at Alex's waist; he adds his mouth. "He beat her until the blood ran down and he made me watch. He knew I'd lied, Alex."

I didn't want to come back. Losing her rose up in me and covered my face and my mouth and my nose and when I breathed in, I breathed in my loss, and when I tried to breathe out again I couldn't -- I'd changed, I'd become something different. Neither land nor water.

"I became," Burr said, "foreign to myself."

That wakes him. His head lifts.

I found you over and over. I think you were there with me in Nevis -- weren't you? Wasn't I here in the Colonies? And in the war -- how many times did I come to you on some pretense? How many times did you turn me away? You saved my life in Maine and now you want to deny my thanks? 

He reaches out. _Aaron. Let me._

"Books saved me," said Burr. "They were safe. I could close them and they were quiet and when I wanted to talk they heard me, they repeated it back. So I wrote it down ..."

I found books, Burr. I found out other people were smart, and they wondered too, and I wanted to share it. A poem saved my life; it made people see me, notice me. It took me away from my island; it set me loose and adrift and it let me come here, to you, and now you want -- Burr, the only one who'd ever wanted to hear me was my mother and when she was gone the words dried up in my mouth and my stomach was so empty of anything but plain, every day things -- being hungry, or being scared.

I can't live that way. I can't lose all that again.

Burr. I cannot lose one more fucking thing i cannot lose anything more I cannot I will not _you will not do this to me_

 

* 

 _There's a place to fall,_  Burr had said. _You just need to find it, Alexander_

\-- yes, like a featherbed -- or a pillow, over his mouth and nose -- he can't breathe around it -- 

*

 

He fights back against the shaking _(Aaron Aaron I cannot I can't you can't make me)_ and it works, seems to work, for a moment; he sinks his hands into that skin and pushes down and Burr sinks to the floor and Alex goes with him and they're saying nothing at all, nothing, and now Alex is straddling him and he slides his hands down to skin and smooth and sweet, and he was giddy again with joy and relief (here be here be here with me) and it changes as Burr's breathing changes, Burr is trying not to react (even now? even now?) and he does anyway and it's the most beautiful thing, the sweetest thing, to see him lose himself

 

_Let me; I want to_

The words stumble in his mind; what use words? What use memory? They're strangely uncertain (finally? yes?) and Burr seems ready to speak so Alex pushes him down against the rug and holds his shoulders firm and bites licks runs wetness across his collarbone, his neck, his chest smooth where it is smooth and rough where the hair begins and clusters, an interesting change, a new taste in a day of newness,  _Burr_

He's saying something quiet and Alex ignores him thoroughly and goes about his own business. He doesn't worry at the flesh as he wants to, they didn't talk about that and he doesn't know how Burr feels about pain, so he only gives a few milder nibbles when he can't resist it anymore (god, god) and feels the gratifying shiver, the reaction

_Why did you make me wait so long why did you make me wait, Aaron Aaron_

There are scars too, from the wars: dots of shrapnel and a ragged line where a bullet scraped past (mmmm) and rough spots, callouses, from -- what? Horse-riding?

It's not enough. It's never enough. He wants more. He moves in a promising arc that Burr does not fight in the least, his eyes are shut and he is flushed ever so slightly, and Alex loosens the ties and fidgets at the top button on his trousers and glances up through his eyelashes -- yes, that soft sleepy look is back and his eyes are the color of trees in rain, _beautiful_ he wants to say,  _remind me to tell you how beautiful you are right now_ but he breathes hot on the heat of Burr and gently noses against it and hears a gratifying choking noise

yes yes yes

and he's working slow at the fabric over his hips again -- no need to hurry now, he can take his time, he's worked for this he's _earned_  it goddammit

he bends his head to the terse line of Burr's waist, so different to his own softness, so different to the normal common everyday things -- the knotted wool flowers in the rug, the coal fire giving light and heat and a certain yellow odor -- oh his own hands are so every day and still somehow new, changed, to be here and now

\-- and Burr wants it.

Alex knew it, he  _knew_ it and he's smugly gloriously pleased with himself, with the reaction he elicits and wanted to elicit and worked so goddamned hard to get from this tight-wound barbed-wire ball of a man, all barbs and thorns

when they met Alex flushed all over from simple desire; when they started to argue the clean clear simplicity of his lust turned swirling and dark like ink dropped in water and he thought: _There must be something here._

Nothing is hidden this well, this closely, unless it is precious.

_(Aaron let me Aaron I want to)_

He wants to sort it out. Yesterday he wanted (he wants) to cut the goddamned knot -- but that's not Burr's way and it wouldn't gain him anything but a deeper argument, a darker mystery. He resolved to untangle it and he has, now -- he thinks he has --

\-- but there at the flat smooth stretch of hipbone something brushes back against his fingers, a roughness, a strange rhythm, parallel ridges -- invisible except to the searching hand and his sensitive tongue -- _scars?_ he thinks vaguely and shifts over to look properly and he sees how far down it goes -- almost to the knee -- unnaturally even on the curved human form, and oh it tastes like salt (sweat) he tastes like salt ( _Nevis?_ )

and they're shivering together in the firelight and oh the snow is soft and thick outside and oh oh  _why did you make us wait for this_

and Burr grabs his hair and pulls, hard. Not a love-pull.

Alex sits up.

They stare at each other.

"Alexander," he says, choking, it sounds like fear and it cannot be fear -- "Don't you fucking look at me like that. Don't you dare." He's pushing him down, he's rolling him over and pinning him, eyes losing focus, thinking 

why did you when did you _why_

because there's no mistake, those lines; they're perfect and careful and as honest as anything Burr's ever told him, grief embodied, and when did Aaron ever grieve?

Sweet Aaron. Beautiful Aaron. _I have always understood you._

"I'll," says Burr, and he's biting now with thoughtless intensity, no longer deliberating, "I'll _make_ you --"

and Alex shivers and gasps and clutches at him

(yes)

and dimly dimly remembers  _he must be quiet_

"-- I'll make you hurt -- if you ever -- ever again --"

Alex has never felt that for himself, he's never acted out on himself -- to be so raw, to be an open bruise, no other way out but to carve it open, carve it out -- but seeing it on this man opens it in himself and he doesn't even need to _ask_  because he knows, he knows, and with it he understands -- he doesn't want to understand --

_Burr?_

He returns to that waist and now he's pulling the trousers down further, all the way down and (yes) there is what he wants (yes) and he's skimming his palm overtop and watching Burr's eyes shut and his mouth shut too and the tiny tender frown that moves between his brows, the swallow that moves down his throat as he loses himself and returns and now there's another frown, another tiny noise, and his hips jerk.

_We are so alike._

He thinks this and his mouth descends and Burr pulls his hair again, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes but he stays put, stays and stays, the kindest and cruelest thing to do. 

Stay with me. Don't you goddamn dare move.

Stay with me.

I need you here.

Those scars, the lines of scars under his mouth: he understands. He doesn't want to understand

(remember)

the ocean at tide-point, waiting for waves to hit him drag him down knock him over -- or how he started fights with other boys --- water or fists, didn't matter, anything to hurt, anything at all to take him down. Feel anything.

Anything at all. 

_Aaron._

Mangoes; he remembers that. The taste of the ocean; the taste of mangoes too, firm in his hand like a woman's breasts or the most intimate part of a man -- sweetness edged with sea-salt, a mirror of the taste on his tongue right now, with Burr gasping beneath him as he tastes and bites -- 

 _You would love it,_ he could say. If Burr let him.

Warmth, and the palm-trees, and the sweetest fruits, ripe and heavy in your hand --

He could make an allusion, if Burr let him speak. He'd say something clever about tongues and juices and the salt-tang and what it's like to curve your wrist just right and have the prize come heavy down into your palm, to sink your teeth into flesh -- 

The most intimate fruit.

And Burr will never taste one.

If I give you enough, would you give me what I want? If I gave you mangoes, Burr.

_He asked for my silence._

His fingers running over my mouth, opening my mouth, smiling at me while I sought him and arched and ached: _Could you be quiet for me?_

And how he looked with my hand on his thigh, how he flinched back and stared at me and tried to hide again and could not, how he could not take back what I'd seen of him. Those marks.

Cold. You always look cold. Uncaring. Unaffected.

(When did you why did you when why why why didn't you _tell_ me)

but Aaron is dragging him up and he kisses hard and now Alex runs his hand along the lines of his face, no parallel lines here, nothing intentional or hand-made, and he likes to see how they soften and disappear when he moves. _Burr. Burr. Why didn't you tell me._

How easily we hurt each other. Why do you do it to me? Why do I want to hurt you, why do I want it, why do I (love you) why do you try when you do it effortlessly, automatically?

Let me taste you, he says with his tongue and his mouth and his eyes, letting his voice hiss out in a breath of air, not formed into words. Do you taste like home? Salt and sunshine and the grit of sand, Burr? Do you taste like summer, is it there in your skin?

He tastes of sweat.

Here in the fading afternoon sunlight coming through ripply windows, past the delicately printed curtains, mixed with firelight, he looks different -- he looks less angry, less Burr-ian --

 _But it's wintertime_ , Alex thinks, confused again: both of them are paler right now, separated so long from sunlight. Sun, and warmth. It's cold here -- it would be cold, if he weren't so hot. Skin to skin. His skin might well be steaming, as his boots are giving off water now, the snow is entirely melted away from where it clung to his laces, where he hadn't stomped it free on the doorstep or left it on the rug.

Snow.

Winter.

Every year it takes so long to for the world to go back to summer, it's so long before the sun comes back with its rough humbling presence. He doesn't miss Nevis often -- everything is different here and it doesn't startle him with that awful almost-familiarity that settles in his chest like it wants to grow inside and break him apart. It's safe here; it's new.

At home --

His breath catches.

Not _home_.

In _Nevis_ , then: everything was (it is) too well-known. How can he be free when the people knew him? His mother is buried on the island; his entire childhood was buried there, brought down in an afternoon of lashing water and wind and her arms around him, protecting him, praying aloud.

And then the people passed around a hat and set him free -- they let him go -- and he paid them back in the best way he knew how: he forgot them. He became someone else; he became the person they'd expected him to be.

So he doesn't miss it. Can't let himself miss it.

But it's snowing outside (still) and this -- the room, the snow, Burr -- it all brings something of home, by contrast --- something about the color of trees and the shape of the land against the sky, the vast openness of the world -- so different to here, so different to these stiff Americans --

 

*  
(Burr said _It would be -- a mistake. A bad idea_ , and Alex shook his head: _You think every risk is a mistake. What could happen? Nobody needs to know --_  he smiled his most convincing and watched Burr's eyes flicker)

*

 

"Fuck," says Burr, and pushes Alex off with a quick hard shove. "Fuck, Alexander!"

but Alex crawls back on hands and knees, all mouth and eyes here and now, all openness in the places desire lives; he sucks marks into his skin, seeing it rise and react and redden and purple under his mouth, biting and worrying at it when it doesn't come quick enough, hearing Burr's reaction, seeing the color of his words. Burr. His words are always perfectly coordinated, deep purple and steely blue that golden-orange color of midday, _Aaron Aaron_ \--

"Fuck," again but now his voice is different, he's shivering and stammering and rubbing his face while Alex works at him. "Fuck, fuck --"

Salt. And yellow. He's all over yellow. Alex can see it with his eyes shut -- can see it better that way really, because his vision doesn't get distracted and caught on the edges of Burr's face, his expression of catching and trying to hold and losing again, his mouth twisting and tongue licking and fingers stretching seeking, clenching and releasing, all on the edge.

Burr is asking him something now. "Can I -- "

 _Yes yes yes,_ he wants to say.  _Of course. Anything. Yes._

He nods, and Burr bends down to him like he's done this before, perfectly assured, and there's a cool feeling -- moisture? -- and Alex winces (not enough it's not enough it's not _enough_ )

he can't -- 

(John)

and he tries to squirm away, instinct rather than fear, and Burr is saying again _Shhh_ and Alex steadies himself (wait) and grips the rug and -- oh god, oh god -- he reaches up to pull down that face but Burr presses forward and presses a frown between his eyebrows and Alex shuts his eyes and he can feel him, every reaction and every tremor, he'd wanted that most of all, more than anything, and he'd forgotten.

His hands stretch open and go still.

He can't move at all. He's too full.

 

Burr is saying something again.

 

 _You're yellow_ , Alex wants to say but there's that thin cold fear down in his belly: What if Burr doesn't understand him? And it's the only way to describe it, it's the only honesty he has.

I have always understood you.

"I will never understand you," he'd snapped in the noisy bar, and Burr rolled his eyes and Alex wanted to -- wanted to -- he wanted and wanted and _wanted_ , he wants, even now he wants, and

I have worked for this I have worked for this, to get you like this, to get you here, here with me, underneath me

and twisting

and _wanting_ me. I have worked for it and I will keep you here and I will not let you forget. You were made for this, you were made for my hands on you -- and I will not let you forget it, I will not let you fall away any more; this is what we were meant to be from the beginning -- Aaron --

\-- but if Aaron was meant for him, he was meant for Burr.

And it's true, it's true, the reality of them together is perfect and pure as a bell struck in cold weather, the sound traveling outwards for miles, the reverb shaking them both

(Aaron Aaron)

and Alex is falling too.

 

He sweats. it drips down from his knees and off his thighs and, god, but Burr is smoothly controlled and the careful violence of their meeting, their _joining_ , god god _god_ he's mumbling now and Alex can't quite hear it aside from the swears at both of them, and "Should never have let you in --"

You didn't let me in. I snuck in. Your servants tried to stop me and _I didn't care,_  I trust you

I love you, he thinks faintly, he wants to say it but that's not right exactly 

(yellow)

and Burr would misunderstand maybe and anyway it's not sex between them, not sex only, it's that purity -- that alignment -- two purposes meeting, magnets connected north and south, desire and culmination traveling endlessly, this date, this moment -- 

he feels it dimly, wordless and real and shaking-deep

 

*

( _Please_ , he said on a quick intake of breath. _Please kiss me. Please let me touch you. And I'll -- I'll never, never bring it up again no matter what happens, okay? Just let me -- let_ yourself _\-- just once, Aaron --_ )

*

 

Alex is crying. He is bleeding. 

He feels it happen, a change in the type of pain. Clutches on to Aaron. One more pain. Who cares.

He reaches for himself during a lull, feels Burr's body startle all the way into his, brings his fingers away red -- words, words --

Eyes shut.

 

Go on. Go on.

Make me shut up.

 

When was the last time he did this? Laurens; on the banks of the Susquehanna, that glorious river, so easy to believe it really is a nymph, in all her moods bright and dark; they'd tried it every way they could think of and ended sore and tired, worn out as much by an hour or two as by a long days march.

John had smiled at him, laying back in the grass, smile open as the sun.

"Alex," he'd said. "Are you all right?"

"Alex? Alexander." Burr gathers him in. "Shush -- Alexander, shh ..."

 

Burr had been frightened when he came in -- how did he miss that? He'd said a Burr-ian  _No_ and Alex said _Please_ and Burr let himself be drawn in and now he is shaking, shaking while Alex shakes too, and he was right, it's obvious now, this was a terrible idea, he should have stayed at home tonight and just shut his eyes or called on another friend instead if he needed more than fantasy, god god  _Aaron_

The fire warms part of his skin and Aaron warms another part and between them is a queer dichotomy, nameless, certainly wordless. He can't even think now -- his world is narrowed to hands meeting skin, again and again and again, hot breath, his mouth taken by the mouth of another man as fully, as wholly, as he gives in to speech, letting the words flow and pass, Alex only a conduit -- as he is now for desire -- helpless helpless, almost formless.

 _No_.

Burr has given off talking and only says his name now, reverentially, and Alex meets him, mirrors him, touch for touch, longing for longing.

He comes; he is shaking all over. He is babbling.

Dimly he feels Burr touching his face, pushing back his hair.

Speaking. "Alex?"

Soft now, because Alex is weeping again.

"Alex," he says.

 

 _No_ , he tries to say.

 

 _Alex_ , his mother had said, and touched him, and said something and smiled and nodded and he pretended he understood but it was nonsense, and she said Alex again in gratitude and reassurance, like her words were the last thing he needed to know, the final secret to all of this -- their life together, what it means to lose her like his, in a way that will color all her life going onwards until he's standing in a woods in Maine, in the coldest winter imaginable, and he's feeling the heat and sweat of that day, he's still waiting to understand, while Burr shakes him and says _Wake up soldier, man you need to wake, speak to me -- Alexander? Tell me you're awake._

 _Awake_ , he mumbled.

The hand kept shaking him until his eyes opened and he scowled and said _Fuck you leave me be_ , and Burr smiled at him in real relief, the first time he's seen a real expression on that deeply-held reserve and stoicism: _Good. Stay angry. It's good for you. And stay awake, Hamilton. If you go to sleep, you'll freeze, and I'll leave your useless body here for the coyotes and wolves, don't think I won't._

He believed him. And now he could see the men around him, shivering and stamping their feet to work some feeling back into the dead nerves, trying to keep the blood running in fingers and toes, sitting together close for warmth and comfort both.

And the snow falls down.

 

Alex. _Alexander._

"Shhh," says his voice now; shhh say his hands, running over shoulders and chest and the ridges of spine. Shhh. Long strokes, grounding him

 _Alex_ , he tries to say. You called me Alex, Burr?

"Alex," his mother said, dying. She said his name and she died. "Don't cry," she said, and he was crying; "don't speak," she said, because he was trying to speak and his lungs were full of rot and he was crying and she didn't even want to hear him, anymore; how could she want that? When was the last time he told her that he loved her? Not then; not as a teenager. Not then. When?

 _Please_ , he'd said, to those narrowed eyes. _Please, Aaron?_  And  _If you stop talking_ , Burr had said; he'd laughed at him, he'd _laughed_. He knew what he was asking (he didn't know, he didn't know), he did it deliberately to hurt me (he didn't)

"God, Alex." Soft, wondering. "God."

(you have to let me tell you)

He's choking again; the water is in his throat and his lungs again; the waves are too high and they go on and on and every time they close over his head he's sure he'll get free if he just kicks up but it rises above him as he rises and he can't, he can't get free long enough to get a breath of air. Just a breath. I need to breath. I need to speak.

Salt on his tongue; salt in his eyes.

Burr is quiet now, still.

Alex is the one shaking. All his worst days are here and does he have to go through them again, and all together, how can he bear it? _My mother,_ he thinks, and _all that winter_ , and  _You laughed at me,_ and he's got his hands pressed over his face and he's in it again

 

\-- his ship went through three storms before they touched shore and every time he thought they were going to die; he was down in the hold -- the boards creaking and screaming and leaking -- and the people, the people praying while the water sloshed over their feet and the ballast shifted --

 

My mother prayed and the storm ended like it was listening to her prayers and then, then she died _anyway_ , like it had moved from outside us to inside her, like it kept me safe and took her instead, quid pro quo -- your touch for my voice, Aaron? 

 

and when I stepped on America the whole world came up rushing to meet me and I fell over and I was sick on the bare soil there by the docks and the men laughed at me but I'd never been so grateful to be sick in my life. It meant I was alive -- living -- it was proof that something in me wanted to go on. 

I wanted to want that again. To want anything.

They laughed at me when I was sick all over and when I started talking they laughed at me again. It took me years, years to get rid of that accent. Years of controlling and fighting and doing every single thing wrong over and over and over.

You didn't laugh at me. You frowned. You were patient, you practiced with me -- practiced speaking, making me speak -- 

 

so I said it out loud, because you made me say it.

 _Please let me touch_ you, I said. _Let me kiss you. Please?_  

 

He is Alex Hamilton -- he can -- he can --

 

 _Remember_ , said Burr, undressing him. _You asked for this. Remember that._

I did.

 

*

 

Little things recall us to earth.

The fire gives a great pop and settles; this is enough. He returns to himself -- knows himself as a person, as a body, as eyes held tightly shut.

Arms are around him. His arms are around someone.

_Burr._

He opens his eyes.

They are close together. He is very warm. It is warm here on the floor. The rug is good wool and tightly woven and he can see a dim pattern in it, reds and greens and here and there a golden yellow, like the color of certain fruit. 

He is so far from there.

The fire speaks to itself; his heartbeat steadies; Burr's fingers dot and rub meaningless symbols in his skin. Two lines meeting in a point; a cross-bar connecting them. 

 _This is an A_ , said his mother, A is for _Apple_ and _August_ and _Alexander_. Her hands, folded over his hands, holding a stick in the yard and tracing in the sweet black loam. Line, line, cross ...

He can smell Burr, taste him, hear his breathing in its calmness, the rush and sigh of breath in and out of his lungs. Sweetness and salt. Is A for Aaron too?

The air is cold around them but they are so warm.

The windows are tall and well-glazed; there is little distortion even from this angle as he looks outside to the world, the silence, the still-falling snow. How different everything is on this side, this distance not just from Nevis but from his own house a few blocks away -- there, he has never known Burr, never been with him, never heard their voices move together in a single shout.

\-- noise swallowed up by propriety. Because even now, while Burr is awake, he looks grave and thoughtful -- and god only knows what he's thinking, what he wants, what he will do.

Alex reaches out _(please don't hurt me anymore) --_ Is he allowed to speak, yet? Does he care?

It's over. It will never be again.

"Alexander?"

Hands on him again, hands in his hair, pushing back his hair, rubbing beneath his eyes, holding him still while he tries to flinch away: "Alexander, wake up --"

It's not the right word; he isn't asleep, he's

(drowning)

He's fighting again.

 _Burr?_ he says, tries to say, fails to say.

Aaron is frowning at him.

 _I knew you before,_ he tries to say. Swallows instead.

"I've never seen you like this," says Burr -- without judgment, for once -- he sounds almost soft, despite the crease between his eyebrows. "Are you all right?"

Alex burrows his head against his lover's skin. Arms come down around him, holding him there. "What do you need?"

The fire is yellow and red and heat and he'd like to touch it to see if it's as sweet and clean as it looks but he doesn't want to move away from this, away from Burr, the rug beneath them and the silence between them, so different from his own earlier quiet; they are together and they are raw.

"What do you want?"

"What?" Alex is stiff-tongued, sleepy. It's hard to return. He doesn't want to return. Snow. He came here through the snow. Calling _Burr? Burr?_ as he came inside. _Aaron, why don't you touch me?_ And Burr had laughed ... 

"You started to say something earlier. And you stopped."

 _Shhh,_ Burr told him.

He's shaking his head. "Nothing. Oh," he leans up for a kiss. "You. You," he says again, by way of explanation; he's finished speaking now.

He falls asleep,

and 

"You," says Burr, wondering.

**Author's Note:**

> *  
> Historical Truisms:  
> \- windows had wavy glass because window-glass was very (!) expensive, and also difficult to make evenly  
> \- books were sold with the pages uncut! you had to cut open every other page before you read it the first time  
> \- goose-quill pens are easy to split open (and ruin), especially if your writing pressure is wrong; carving them well is sort of an art and I cannot imagine that Hamilton was good at it but I'll lay money on Aaron Burr doing it well  
> \- people dressed in Serious Layers during the winter because those houses were cold af; Burr is wearing fingerless (knit) gloves and, yeah, several layers, just to sit next to a fire and read  
> \- Burr is reading Laurence Sterne and giggling over the "did you wind the clock" scene  
> \- we can argue all day about whether or not coal fires smell any particular way but my synesthetic ass thinks they have a yellow-greenish scent, like the color of sulfur
> 
> Historical Inaccuracies:  
> \- Burr was indeed a soldier in Maine (Battle of Quebec!) -- and he did save Hamilton's ass -- but that was in New York.  
> \- no idea if Laurens and Hamilton were ever together on the _Susquehanna_  
>  (i hope so. it's the most beautiful river in the world)  
> \- someone probably helped Alex with his accent and it probably was not Burr.  
> (also, i've had speech therapy; is incredibly difficult)  
> \- belts (to hold up your pants) were not a Thing in 18th-century America; they wore suspenders instead  
> (if you think I care, please remind yourself that I wrote slash about the Founding Fathers)  
> *
> 
> complain about my anachronistic treatment of historical clothing over on tumblr  
> @littledeconstruction


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